


Negotiations and Certain Sacrifices

by EternityCode



Series: Resolute Relations [1]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Biting, Bruises, Control, Im as confused as you are, Kayn is a masochist, Kayn is a slut, M/M, Masochism, NSFW, Okay here we go again, Rape?, Sexual Content, Smut, The sex, dirty secrets, interperspective bullshit, not safe for work, power, send help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15910329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternityCode/pseuds/EternityCode
Summary: He is not merciful, no one ever expects him to be and Kayn is no different. The demonic hands that wraps around his throat is not an empty warning as Swain gives it a firm, unyielding flex and closes in. Relentless teeth scrape along his throat and down his collar where it finds its mark, drawing up blood and tearing open skin. Kayn almost hisses out at the contact but the icy smile upon his own features is a bold contradiction; if only looks could cut. The exhale is demanding-Swain no longer let him inhale, a hand cupping his jawline as the general brings him close with a blank look, too close for real comfort.





	Negotiations and Certain Sacrifices

**Author's Note:**

> Smut. Minuscule Gore. Average (more than 2k words).

Negotiations and Certain Sacrifices

 

The black marble throne was ghastly as it was uncomfortable; its shine has long lost its sleek, demanding nature. It cracks at the roots and evergreen crawls from the depths beneath, tangling and ensnaring the marble in a crushing grip. The throne is colossal, unfit for the largest man but when Jericho Swain sits upon it, with one foot crossed over the other, eyes dark and mouth twisted into a hungry expression, it's fitting. It was made for him the moment he acceded the name of Grand General like all those before him.

He is not merciful, no one ever expects him to be and Kayn is no different. The demonic hands that wraps around his throat is not an empty warning as Swain gives it a firm, unyielding flex and closes in. Relentless teeth scrape along his throat and down his collar where it finds its mark, drawing up blood and tearing open skin. Kayn almost hisses out at the contact but the icy smile upon his own features is a bold contradiction; if only looks could cut. The exhale is demanding-Swain no longer let him inhale, a hand cupping his jawline as the general brings him close with a blank look, too close for real comfort.

Kayn purrs and the faux smile-more sneer than smile-he cracks earns him one less minute to breathe when Swain closes his demonic hand around his throat once more, fragmenting air into little pieces. His hands begin to slip downward and the look of deep intent that Jericho Swain gives the shadow assassin is nothing short of silent amusement and disregard as he touches what he likes best about the Ionian; once a Noxian too, he supposes. Swain is demanding in his every move but Kayn does not shy down, instead the boy-an ignorant boy to the general-lets him explore, lets him as he pleases but without submission, without a leash; a mutual agreement.

Kayn is restless as he responds to every touch, none gentle as he brings himself closer to the Noxian Grand General. The breath that finally comes out, comes out in a chilling whisper as brown eyes blink up into the pitch black ones. Kayn grows impatient, and presses himself into Swain's strong chest, the look on his own face impassive. The bruises have already begun to show and his breath stutters and hitches but he wills it down, contains it-his profession calls- and he answers the rising anticipation. A shadow assassin is silent, a shadow assassin does not need to breathe when his victim does, does not need to giveaway his position.

“General,” Kayn doesn't stop smiling even when his jaws strain. It was one word, a simple word but his intent is heard loud and clear. It was only such a shame that Jericho Swain did not care but instead focuses about what he likes best-he denies him what he wants. More bruises, deeper bites and everything about dominance and power, submission and to follow begins to bleed through on the shadow assassin's skin as Kayn bites back another word. He was his assassin tonight and the contract will not fold-if Swain wants him to roll over, he has no doubt that the boy would-so he doesn't fold either, never relenting in his choke hold because he runs the game and he wants Kayn to know.

“Silence,” Jericho Swain croons, hot breath in the others ear. His expression is dark once more, betraying nothing unlike the assassin's cocky demeanor. He gives nothing away when his hands suddenly roam and Kayn gives up an uncharacteristic whimper, and jerks up in his iron grip. He does not relent though, rough hands rake over the now marred skin again-Kayn's clothes have long been discarded but not his-until he hears the same reactions once more; a guttural, drawn out shutter. It's intoxicating, Jericho Swain decides as he continues with a stroke of morbid curiosity; just how far he could push, he wants to know. The boy squirms in his lap as the general listens in on every fault and whisper. Kayn mouths something under his breath but Swain disregards it instead like he has been doing for the last hour and a half. He knows that Kayn's limits and patience wears thin and he wants the boy to be the one to beg not for him to stop hurting him but to hurt him _more._

“General.”

“I thought I told you to heed your silence?”

“Our agreement?”

The action is immediate and with only a growl Swain can hear, he grabs the shadow assassin by his delicate neck before he too rises and he presses Kayn down once more, bent over the arm of his cold throne. He takes no action after that though and the assassin brings his hips backwards, until he's pressing up against him. The look Jericho Swain makes is triumphant, smug and the breath he inhales is a condescending smile. He leers and Kayn leers equally back under his long hair.

“I'm afraid you are going to have to recall my memories, shadow assassin.”

“It was written on the papers I brought.”

“But you do not mind repeating so? I left the documents behind long ago.”

“The mutual treaty between the Order of the Shadows and you, general.”

“And why would the Order of the Shadows need such treaty?”

“I am only his messenger, general.”

“Liar's lips do not deceive, dear assassin.”

“Perhaps you could wring the lie from my unworthy lips then.”

“Or perhaps I should silence them for good.”

“You wouldn't do so, you find what I say to be bold and intriguing.”

“Is that a challenge I hear?”

“Only the truth, general.”

“Perhaps I will find it upon my own then, such truth.”

“Then do not hesitate to do so.”

“Desperate masochist isn't the ideal profile for an assassin.”

“You flatter me, general. It is only half of what I am willing to show and tell.”

“Then you will show and tell,” Swain croons lowly in the boy's ears, more a demand even with the questioning tone. Without another word, rough hands ghost upon the expanse of Kayn's sides and Jericho Swain rakes his nails downwards, leaning in close. He whispers something between them and a visible, full body shutter escapes from the boy as he bares his teeth in a challenging manner; defensive and defiant as it was, he can see the shadow assassin slipping. The words that spill from his serpent tongue laces with filthy intent but held in such a manner it deems pristine and nothing more than mere trivial matters between diplomat and Grand General.

Kayn pants, not from exhaustion but from axenic anticipation. His lips are bleeding now-he's bleeding all over, he muses-bleeding even more when Jericho Swain closes his canines down on his bottom lip and forces the uncharacteristic whine back down the boy's throat. The droplet of red that sat, pooled and broke alongside the gasp is something Jericho Swain considers sightly as he runs two sly fingers onto the shadow assassin's chin, taking the crimson into his own, harsh-spoken lips. He tastes it in the moment of silence that follows, deep in thought before he pulls his fingers away, a strands of saliva sticks from one finger to the next.

“Though diluted, the blood contains traces of the soul,” Swain sighs before fixing the shadow assassin with a piercing stare; it's a bold statement, an inquiring even when it lacks every aspect a question would contain. Swain stills in his movements and Kayn is almost disappointed when he stops completely. The boy stirs in the Grand General's iron grip but does not say anything, he can be patient, he has to be. So he humors Jericho Swain when the man speaks once more, pinning him against the ghastly marble throne with a reminding shove that scrapes him against broken stone.

“He claims he bested the Darkin.”

“He _has_ bested the Darkin.”

“And clearly so.”

“The misinterpretation?”

“He doubts that he has.”

“And he has no doubt the general has his right to assume.”

“And the general says he _will_ heed his silence.”

“And he says of course, general.”

Without another word, the man covers the shadow assassin in a flourish of his cape and body. It's heavy when it drapes over Kayn, even the slightest touches are too heavy, lightning down his spine because they've been at this treacherous game for so long now, it lacks, it lacks so much in the main focus, that the rough fabric feels like sin when it meets his own bare skin-bare just for the general-and vexes him further. Kayn makes a undignifying noise though there is no shame that crosses his sharp features. His body is littered with so many bruises, he just wants to hurt more and he knows he's sick like that.

His silent prayers are answered the moment he tenses up and feels an insistent pressure from behind. When his breath breaks, two digits are hilted in him and he finds himself not breathing when he can. He digs his own nails into whatever he can find because the intrusion was abrupt. Sudden but not unexpected, he decides as he arcs his back and he can feel every last second of it. His footing is weak and his legs asleep when he tries to move them but accepts that he can't when Swain gives a reminding half-snarl from behind. The general was going to do what he likes best to him and shadow assassin will allow every last inch of it.

The irrational part of him begins to drift.

It's a one sided impulsion to be _hurt_ , to hurt _more._

To be _nothing_ under Master Zed's boot.

Because he's _sick_ like that.

_Dirty fantasies, overindulgence._

A guttural moan is torn from his throat when a spot deep within is struck accidentally. It was so deep in his core that he felt on a different level and he doesn't even press off the look on his face, his desperate drive for, “more general, more.” His pale cheeks flush and a thin trail of drool snakes down his so prettily bruised lips as he tries to crane his back to look. Swain does not give him that luxury, holding his head down with his free hand in a crushing, dangerous grip, fingers intertwined in black locks. Kayn smirks, his expression smug but Swain takes note and Swain's only so much smugger.

The unceremonious backhand comes as a sudden impact and the boy's head jerks to the side with a harsh _crack._ The hiss that was supposed to escape comes out more as a broken moan and he clenches down in embarrassment when Jericho Swain admits a cold, dark chuckle. Kayn only wishes it was Master Zed who laughs at his fucked up act, he only wishes that it was Master Zed who was going to take him. Ruin him. Call him out for being the whore he was. He wishes, he really does even when the Grand General's hands retract and the long anticipation hits in once more.

The gasp and little, _“oh,”_ is caught in his throat when the man takes him without mercy, setting the pace harsh and with haste. The boy growls out in sweet, sweet pain and torturous arousal. A high he can't out into perspective as his mind wanders where it wills; if only his will didn't break so easily, so eagerly. A sharp yelp scrapes along his throat and a hand sneaks up from behind before they shove harshly into his mouth and down his throat, where Kayn begins to choke and plea. Pleas for more of the insatiable thirsty.

The light-spark of black-eye is like electricity when it runs from him, ringing his body and knocking it into a drunken haze where he can no longer stand, falling into the black marble in a state of hot breath, hot body, hot mess. The icy chill of the throne is cold, too cold and it was good, it felt so right against his burning, sweat-sheened skin. The boy pants because he can't get enough of the sensation, a burning fever in his mind-he aches- and everywhere else. It was too much, too intolerable at the same exact time as was the demand for more. The rhythm continues in a fast, relentless pace where Jericho Swain proceeds from behind, chasing his own personal hell without a singular care for Kayn's.

The stricken part him wants Master Zed to use him like this.

Like the dirt he could scrape off his boots without a second thought.

Like he was _nothing._

_Less_ than nothing.

He almost does let it slip when the half-choke, half-moan that comes spilling from his raw lips is a plea for, _“Zed, oh god, please,”_ but he's smarter than that, even in his delusional haze of one fantasy sinking through reality into another. He almost forgets why he's here, why he's bent over Jericho Swain, Grand General of Noxus' throne like he was supposedly supposed to be even when he thinks he might know. He was doing everything to impress Master Zed, to earn his favor even when the man did not care, did not spare him a second glance and what he cannot have, he needs. He'd go to any extent to make sure this treaty comes to a delightful understanding because he won't fail Master Zed now.

Perhaps, he enjoys his personal sacrifice a little too much.

Kayn slurs from the fingers in his mouth as he chokes out those terrible, terrible words. Insensible, eligible as they were, it was not remotely difficult to come to a assumption about what they say. A high-pitched whine rings across Jericho Swain's throne room and the Grand General deems it something erotic because the writhing body beneath him was a sight to be seen, to hear, to break into, to relish in sadistic desire. He just does that, true to his compulsive nature as his pace never breaks, a disgusting rhythm as accelerated as his pulsating heart. He finally brings himself to the brinks with harsh shoves and pulls and with something like finality and no. More. Words.

He wishes it were Master Zed.

If only he could see him _now._

A feral growl stumbles from his lips and with a unguarded stutter, Jericho Swain finishes, pitch black eyes narrowing. Kayn feels it deep inside of him, he really does but the general does not halt, does not stop as he drives himself forward. Neither speak in their need to breathe after time loses its edge. The air is acid and their lungs burns sweet as the Grand General tilts his head down once more, teeth clamping around the boy's neck. It would have been intimate if he hadn't done it rough enough to draw blood. Hot breath lingers perhaps a too long before the weight behind him leaves and he groans.

“Zed's name spills from your lips.”

Kayn stops where he now stands, his blood running cold. His eyes narrow and if oh, only if looks could cut, please let it cut. His clothes drop from his fingertips and the blood wasn't just cold now, it freezes in his veins. He thinks his voice is just the same because not a word comes out when he tries and instead Jericho Swain is met with two dislocated inhales that quickly conceal themselves. The boy is no longer sneering, his eyes frigid and his body more as he studies the man facing him with something like loath and self-hatred. He flexes his hand and examines his nails for a fascinatingly long time before replying cautiously. Trudging lightly on thin ice.

“That is no threat, is it general?”

“Only if you think it were to be.”

“Do not mettle.”

“Of course.”

“Leave us to it.”

“Only if you return.”

“You sicken me.”

 

“And you do not?”

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, first smut piece.
> 
> Literally 2k words of build up and two sentences of action. I don't know whether I'm more ashamed, more disappointed or more confused. Enjoy in nonetheless because I know I won't be-ahhHAaah I wanna die in peace. AO3 has made me more toxic than the League community has every dreamed of and I can't say “no regrets” because I really do right now.
> 
> Anyways....If you would like to see a Part 2....
> 
> \----------
> 
> Comments and Kudos are the form of self-inflating ego and love. Spread some of it around. <3


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